


On The Inside

by BeyondVictory



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Anxious Dean Winchester, Fluff, M/M, Possessive Tom Riddle, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-02-27 00:19:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18727828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeyondVictory/pseuds/BeyondVictory
Summary: John Winchester finds out that wizards have information on demons, including the demon who killed his wife Mary. He uses Pam the Psychic to make a sacrifice and give his son Dean magic. Then he makes up an excuse and sends Dean to Hogwarts to work his way up in the wizarding world and eventually get a job at the department of mysteries.Set in 1940’s Britain.I don't own Harry Potter and we owe our wonderful Harry Potter related experiences to the estimable JK Rowling





	1. New Student

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my very first fanfiction so please be kind. I've been pretty nervous about posting my writing, but the words just sort of keep spewing out and kind of needed to go somewhere. Plus I enjoy the world of angsty fluffy queer fanfiction way too much not to contribute to it at some point. I hope you enjoy this unusual pairing!

The sunlight was pale and the air was crisp. Dean breathed in deeply and tried to calm his nerves. He’d never been so far inside enemy territory before. He’d never been so far away from home before either. He missed his dad, he missed his car, and he missed Sammy. 

But even more pressing were the questions. Would he fit in? Would his crash course on magic casting be enough to catch up to where the other students were? And would he be called out as the fraud he was? Pam’s ritual was the real deal after all; magic for life. Dean didn’t even want to think of the sacrifice made for this to work. Would his magic be weaker for it though, or have a different signature? He mentally kicked himself for brooding as the professor turned towards him once more. 

“Mr. Winchester?” Professor Dumbledore asked. His tone was innocent enough, but there was something in his eyes that implied he knew Dean was brooding. “Are there any concerns you wish to share with me before we make our way up to the castle?” 

Dean reddened slightly at the pressure of the situation. “No, sir.” he lied smoothly. Truthfully, he wished he could confide in someone. “I was just thinking of my family.” He added this for good measure, remembering his occlumency lessons and that a little of the truth was better than a direct lie.

“Ah, yes.” Dumbledore nodded sagely. “I am afraid that until Grindelwald’s antics are put to rest in America, your father’s decision to send you here was the wisest course of action. Though I must say, we have only rarely entertained the presence of a home schooled transfer student. If you should need any assistance, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Dean nodded swiftly. Though he knew that the professor likely knew something was amiss, it comforted him that he was being offered help at all. Pushing down the butterflies in his stomach once more, Dean walked with the professor towards the hill above Hogsmeade. 

Earlier that very same morning Dean had met Professor Dumbledore in Diagon Alley. His dad had dropped him off at the pub entrance, under a well worn sign that read “The Leaky Cauldron.” Dean winced as he remembered saying goodbye. He felt like a preschooler saying goodbye to their Mommy. At least, he thought grimly, his emotional distress added to the credibility of his story. After Dean's father departed, professor Dumbledore led him to the magical brick wall out back, and from there, into the Alley itself.

“Have you given any thought as to which house you would like to be in? I’m afraid such practices are uncommon overseas, but here in Europe we tend to hold onto our traditions, for better or for worse.” 

Dean struggled to come back to and focus on the present. “Um, not really.” he admitted sheepishly. Slytherin sure sounded like a bag full of dicks as far as we was concerned, and since he could pass himself off as a half blood at best, he didn’t think he’d fit in there.   
“Ravenclaw would be a good fit for my brother Sammy,” he started, trying to fill the silence as he thought. “But I think he’s holding out for Beauxbatons.” He lied seamlessly. He decided to stick with the story his dad and Pam had crafted. If he felt like he needed backup in a year or two, Sammy would join him here at Hogwarts, but not unless it was necessary. For now, his dad needed Sam to help continue his hunts back home. 

“Ah, but what about yourself?” Dumbledore said curiously. “Surely you must have an idea of your own strengths and shortcomings.” 

“Shortcomings?” Dean asked, genuinely surprised. “I thought Houses were all about the good stuff. You know, the stuff people are good at.”

Dumbledore smiled, clearly amused at the simplicity of the boy’s language. “While it is true that sorting generally brings to mind the more positive aspects of each house, it is equally true that each is defined and influenced by its negative traits. Gryffindors tend to be thoughtless and rash, for example. I myself am a Gryffindor.” He paused, considering his words carefully. “Ravenclaws tend to be overly focused on their studies. A rather unfortunate occurrence, as they miss out on all the parties. Slytherins descend so fully into the inner workings of their house and society that they often can no longer tell fact from fiction. And Hufflepuffs,” he said, smiling serenely, “are perfect.” 

Dean frowned, lost in thought. The process of elimination kept him (hopefully) out of Slytherin and Ravenclaw. He supposed being a badger or a lion wasn’t so bad. 

Just then, they crested the hill, and the magnificent castle came into view. 

“Welcome, Mr. Winchester, to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”


	2. Campus Tour

Dean was led to the Headmaster’s office, whose entrance was just as strange and magical as one could expect. Thankfully, Pamela had access to a few books on Hogwarts, so the moving portraits and magical password protected doors didn’t surprise Dean as much as they would a normal muggleborn. After meeting an enthusiastic Armando Dippet, who praised Dean’s bravery and dedication to academia for having come so far, Dean was led by Dumbledore back to the front hall to meet a student who would guide him around. Staring calmly at the ceiling as if it were a perfectly legitimate thing to do, Dean tried his best act normal. He hoped that “normal” from back home wasn't too different here.

\------------------------

Tom approached the entrance hall from a side passageway. He spotted Dumbledore immediately. A moment later, Tom saw him.

Sandy hair that was cut neatly into a simple American style. Light green eyes the color of jade he’d seen mined from the southern reaches of China. A leather jacket and blue jeans that sent a shiver down his spine. This boy was well on his way to manhood… and--

“Mr. Riddle.” Dumbledore said calmly, somehow frowning using only his eyes. “I would like you to meet Mr. Dean Winchester, a transfer student from America.” 

Tom straightened up and cleared his throat. Damn the man. Dumbledore clearly already sought the other boy for his own side. He must have seen the hunger in Tom’s gaze and had mistaken it for strategic greed. That didn’t matter. Tom would cross those bridges later. 

He threw on a winning smile and inclined his head slightly, wondering suddenly if that was a bit too formal. Blushing, he moved along and said smoothly, “Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr. Winchester. My name is Tom.” 

The boy, Dean, was looking at him with a complex expression. Most would have taken it for shyness or some other sort of normal response, but Tom knew better. Painted subtly into Dean’s expression were elements of amusement, apprehension, and, above all, intelligent observation. But to most, his expression would have appeared rather plain. Most people were fools, Tom found. 

“Hi there, name’s Dean.” He said, his voice gravelly and with a warm cadence not heard in Britain. Tom shifted uncomfortably, a sense of….warmth, spreading through him? Oh no, he thought to himself. He had to be mistaken. 

“Mr. Riddle will give you a cursory tour of the castle and grounds today, and then escort you to tonight’s feast. We brought him here a day early in anticipation of your arrival. A model student, most consider him to be.” Here Dumbledore paused, the twinkle in his eye growing brighter at the subtle barb. Most, the comment implied. Not all. The slight did not go unnoticed, though Tom carefully kept his smile in place. “Please be sure to take him to the Quidditch pitch, the greenhouses, the entrances to each House’s dormitory, and all the important classrooms and tours. And, of course, anywhere else you deem important, Tom.” 

“Of course, professor.”

\-------  
The walk around the castle and grounds was overwhelming for Dean. No amount of preparation and training could prepare him to take in so many places at once. There were so many options for getting from point A to point B in this place that he didn’t know how he would ever learn. Granted, a big part of him thought that was pretty bad ass, but if the boy next to him was any indication, he had a time limit on how long it took to learn before he’d seem like an oggling, backwater muggleborn. Which, in reality, he truly was.

“So, what brings you to Hogwarts?” Tom asked in a perfectly friendly tone of voice. “Surely there are academies in America that you could attend?”

“There are,” Dean said, turning away from the portrait of the Fat Lady. He wondered yet again which house he would be sorted into. “But my father felt that here would be safer, with Grindelwald running around. But to tell you the truth, he’s always favored home education. Stubborn old man. Until my mom died it seemed it was all I could do to get him to let me out of the house.” He grimaced, remembering the night of her death. The night that had changed everything, and had brought him here. 

“Did you lose her in the war?” Tom asked with a cold objectivity. Dean frowned, wondering how to phrase his answer. For all their power and knowledge, the general public of the wizarding world seemed unaware of the demons and their general war on humanity. It seemed that they tended to avoid murdering wizards, for now. But their numbers were growing, and everyday a few more muggle lives were lost.

“Yeah I guess.” Dean cleared his throat. “In a manner of speaking.” Tom cocked his head curiously, but somehow did have enough social graces not to pry. 

They moved on to the Astronomy Tower next, then made their way through the various corridors and classrooms, Tom explaining what each were for. He did not elaborate though, offering only as much information as was absolutely necessary, only as much as a true half blood raised in their world would need. He kept the idle conversation to a minimum, not trusting himself to be capable of true interaction without fumbling or giving anything...more about his true self and views away. 

But it was so hard not engage, when the other boy was rapidly becoming more at ease. With ease came chattiness. And with chattiness came engagement, willing or not.

“So, how’s the food around here?” Dean asked casually, examining a suit of armor with interest. The suit was posing for him, per Dean’s request, so he could get a better view of how its shinguards were put together.

“Excuse me?” Tom asked, caught off guard. While Dean, had been examining the armor, Tom had been examining him, and pondering. Why was Dean so comfortable with all this? Was he indeed a halfblood as he claimed? He had seemed so nervous in the beginning, but now nothing fazed him.

“The food. You know, the eats.” Dean turned his full attention on Tom now, shifting...attractively? How did one shift attractively? Tom shook his head, and replied, “It’s good. The House elves here are quite capable, you know. They know how to make not just British cuisine, but others as well. Sometimes there’s even curry.” He bit his lip, thinking. What did Americans eat? Wartime books and newspapers always depicted 1940’s America as a land of plenty, with fields of lush pasture, elevators flowing with grain, and cheese, milk, and meat at every meal. 

“What sorts of things do you eat over there?” he blurted out. Dean cracked a smile and said, “I’m easy. Eggs, bacon, steak. Never cared much for green stuff but my mom was always trying to get me to eat it. Oh, and pie,” he said, his eyes glazing over. Unwilling to be out competed for the new boy’s attention by glorified pastries, of all things, Tom pressed on. “Have you ever had treacle tart?” He asked with more composure. 

“Treacle tart? What’s that?” Dean asked, cocking his head. 

Satisfied that the conversation was back in his territory, Tom began lecturing Dean on the virtues of treacle tart and other European desserts. Granted there wasn’t much to recommend some of Britain’s modern culinary creations, but there was a great deal more if you went a bit back in history, or if you branched out to include continental Europe as well. 

“So, have you traveled much?” Tom asked, as the conversation slowed and they headed outside to greenhouses and lake. The day had warmed slightly, the autumn sunlight bringing out the color of the grass and clashing oddly with the darkness of the forest beyond. 

“Um, yeah, actually.” Dean said, pausing. “My dad is like an Auror, of sorts. He hunts, uh things.” 

“Things?” Tom asked, curiosity piqued slightly.” 

“Yeah.” Dean answered, relieved that he could be open about this at least, here. “Monsters mostly. He tracks dangerous vampires, werewolves, ghosts, anything that threatens the public. Uh, including muggles.” He added as an afterthought. He wanted to see what the other boy’s reaction would be to that, to gain a little more insight as to where the dark, handsome Hogwarts student stood. For some reason Dean had a burning curiosity about that. He wanted to know where Tom stood on muggles, and in regards to...himself.

Unfortunately the other boy didn’t take the bait, and instead took the conversation in a different direction. “For free?” He asked, in reference to John Winchester’s work. 

“Oh, yeah!” Dean said. “He, uh, takes donations sometimes. Always finds a way to get by. There was this one time in Romania where got rid of a poltergeist for a pureblood baron, and--” Dean launched into a description of some of him and his dad’s greatest hunts, focusing on ones where they’d gotten paid afterward. It didn’t happen all the time, as John was mostly interested in helping people and avenging Mary, but once they began hunting in Europe too the money had started flowing in. And after Dean and Sam had gotten magic, they’d started patronizing wealthy European purebloods, who often took pity on the boys who they thought were being dragged along on supernatural hunting expeditions by their gruff squib father. 

“You don’t mention your father having done magic, though, I’ve noticed.” Tom said diplomatically, again cocking his head to one side. “  
“Oh, uh yeah. He’s a squib. Both his parents were muggleborn. My mom was the witch.” Dean lied smoothly. He had been practicing for months with Pam and his dad, after all. 

“Oh? What was her name?” Tom asked. 

“Mary,” Dean answered swiftly.

“Her last name, Dean.” Tom clarified. 

“Oh, uh, Gilbert. I think they’re an offshoot of the original Nott family. They changed their name in America because of some sort of wizarding politics thing. You know, way back in the day.” Dean replied, speaking swiftly once more. Tom nodded thoughtfully. The Notts were a powerful family. He already had one in his cohort, but he had honestly not thought about international recruitment for his group and movement. It was a major oversight, as the wizarding world was as extensive as the non magical one, with innate talent and magical research in every corner of the earth. 

“Is your family very large?” Tom continued, wanting to know more. 

Dean’s mind moved at the speed of light. He thought of Sammy, his dad, Bobby, Pam, Ellen, and all their secrets that he was supposed to keep. He was tired. He’d had a good day with Tom but he still had to keep his guard up, and he was still nervous for what was to come. The night’s upcoming Sorting ceremony sat heavily in the back of his mind.

Ignoring the question, Dean asked, “Uh, should we be heading to dinner soon? The sun’s starting to set, and Dumbledore said I should change and meet up with the first years.” He grimaced, embarrassed that he, an incoming fourth year, had to be sorted alongside eleven year olds.

“Of course,” Tom said smoothly. He paused, thinking. “You can come and change in the Slytherin dorm. It’s unorthodox for someone who has yet to be sorted, but then, your situation is unusual. I doubt that anyone would mind, but it’d be best to keep it to yourself once you’re sorted. 

Dean stammered out a reply, insisting that changing in a bathroom would be fine. Tom was having none of it. He always got what he wanted. And what he wanted was more time with this unusual boy, before his attention was divided and he was stolen away to another house. Because for all Tom’s guile and resolve, even he could not sway the Sorting Hat into sorting his handsome Dean into Slytherin. The thought weighed heavily on him as they descended to the dungeons, where the Slytherin Common Room lie.


	3. The Sorting

Dean was one of the last to be called, but not the very last, thankfully. He blushed, aware again that he stuck out like a sore thumb. He walked up, aware that his slightly bow-legged gait lacked the grace of most of the other students. Arriving at the front, he sat on the stool and allowed the hat to be placed on his head.

Well well well, what have we here! The Hat said in his mind. Dean jumped, startled by the intrusion.

In all my many years I have never seen such a thing! To have your magic awakened, rather than innate, yes, that is fascinating. It places you in a world all your own, access to parts of your being that others can only dream of. 

The hat paused, as if...thinking?

But that has no bearing on this decision. For all your raw potential, you are no Ravenclaw. Nor do you have the cunning and drive for Slytherin, though I see you’re already becoming acquainted with the Den of Snakes. Dean shifted uncomfortably, unsure if the hat was referring to the day he’d spent with Tom, or that he’d illicitly entered the Common Room to change before the ceremony. 

You are extremely loyal, it is true, which would lend you well to Hufflepuff. But at your core you are a lion. That you would brave an entirely new world to gain power over your enemy, to defeat the foe of innocents, why, there’s no better choice than for you than--

“GRYFFINDOR” The Hat shouted.

Dean sighed as the hat was lifted from his head. He smiled, relieved that it was over, and eagerly strode towards the table that was clapping the loudest. His tie had turned from black to red, and he finally had a place he belonged, at last.

\---------------------

The feast thereafter was pretty great, Dean thought. The food was just up his alley: rich, filling, and sweet (as far as the desserts went). He’d always been a meat and potatoes kind of guy. Plus, these people put EVERYTHING in their pies, including meat! Yep, it was just like being back on the farm in Kansas. Just without the demon-created Dustbowl devastating everything within sight. 

“So, where’re you from?” a girl across from him asked. She was in his year, and so far he’d observed she was brighter than all the others. Luckily, she was friendly. This was good, Dean reasoned. He’d need a smart friend if we was going to catch up.

“America.” He said simply, lips quirking as he hid a smile. 

The other students, high on the euphoria of the feast, snorted and chuckled. 

She frowned more severely than was necessary. “Yes, but it’s a big place, isn’t it? I’ve read about it America: A History.” 

He grinned at that. “Fine. I’m from all over. But Kansas is home.” He drawled slightly, the sentence slurring a little over the familiar words.

To everyone except her, the answer meant nothing. They had likely only heard of Boston and New York. Maybe California, but its cities were still pretty new. But the girl had apparently heard of Kansas, because her jaw about hit the floor. She began gushing about how interesting it must have been, being from America’s heartland. Dean was unsure of how to direct the conversation when she brought up the Dustbowl, but thankfully she (somehow) had already caught wind of the fact that it was caused by demons.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?! And no one is doing a thing about it! You’d think MACUSA would do something!” She asked, full of passion.

Once again Dean was grinning. “Yeah, but I think no one wants to deal with that right now. They’re all worried about Grindelwald and what he’s up to there.”   
And so it went, back and forth between the two. He finally learned her name was Hermione, and that she too was a muggleborn. Their conversations included other Gryffindors, but most were content to eat and drink and joke among themselves for the night. 

But at last, the feast came to an end. Dean had just finished his fourth helping of treacle tart (Tom had been right, it was divine). The Gryffindors minus Hermione had stared in horror ever since he downed the second piece, shocked that anything could fit inside the new boy after all the food he’d eaten during the main course. Hermione was unperturbed, and pressed on with a conversation they’d been having about Transformation Theory. It was cut short, however, by Headmaster Dippet as he bade them goodnight and ordered them all to their respective dormitories. 

As they left the hall the subject turned to classes. Hermione assured him that she’d be taking all the same classes as him, as she was enrolled in everything that could fit into her schedule. As they walked to Gryffindor Tower she assured him that she’d help catch him up on anything he was missing, and of course, she’d guide him to each room. 

“It really isn’t so tricky to navigate once you get the hang of it.” She said confidently. “You just have to start by memorizing which floor you’re on, and go from there.”

Dean wasn’t the praying type these days, but he sent a silent thanks upwards nonetheless, grateful to have made such a good friend so quickly. He was almost able to dispel the niggling feeling of guilt he had for lying to her by omission about being a natural born wizard. In bed, he was almost able to push his guilt and anxiety down and forget about the fact that he was behind enemy lines so to speak. He remembered how free Tom had become during their tour that day, and how he had let his guard down and smiled at Dean when he got really into it. He was almost able to convince himself that that smile and the warmth it spread through his stomach didn’t mean anything.

Almost. 

\---------------------

That night, Tom laid back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling. The other Slytherins had been cutting in their assessment of Dean, or at least they had been at first. They sniggered when he flinched as the hat began talking to him, and they sneered that he had been sorted into Gryffindor. Probably a Mudblood after all, they said. Finally Avery had turned to Tom, about to ask him what he thought of the new boy, when he froze in fear. If looks could have killed the others would have fallen from the bench, for Tom’s gaze was full of deadly intent. He couldn’t control himself. The others had no right, had no idea. Beneath his charming bumpkin facade Dean hid a mind of sharp wit and quick intellect. His peers were unworthy--

Tom stopped himself. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. No, he thought to himself, regaining control of his mind. The others might be beneath him, but they were still important. He needed them if he was going to change the wizarding world. He had regained his composure once Avery had seen how angry he was. The other boy had tittered nervously and asked Tom what he thought of Hogwarts’ newest fourth year. Tom had smiled coldly, and answered in a low voice that this Dean fellow had potential, provided he was afforded proper ‘instruction.’ The others, having caught on to the general situation but still confused the reasoning behind Tom’s assessment, nodded with newfound eagerness. Yes, they chorused, they would happily do as Tom said and mold the new boy into a respectable wizard. The relief had been palpable when Walburga brought up the subject of Quidditch, and the subject of the new boy was dropped.

Quidditch, Tom thought with a snort. What a ridiculous past time. He paused for a moment, wondering suddenly what Dean thought of the sport. He seemed the type for sports, had even showed an interest in baseball of all things during one of their conversations that afternoon. Tom frowned. He was not a natural flyer, and had had to practice in his free time to become anything approaching decent at it. What if he and Dean didn’t share this struggle? What if he was a natural? What did they share, in fact? What if Dean only went for flyers, or for boys not at all? What--

He cursed suddenly under his breath. He could not, would not show any more interest in the boy publicly--anymore weakness. Tom turned over on his side, still frowning. He had never had a crush before. Not once. But the feeling when he thought about Dean, when he thought about pursuing him, wooing him, spending more time with him….this feeling, it was--

Nice.


	4. First Day of School Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean learns to wand. Or tries to anyway

Dean’s first day of classes were a whirlwind. He woke up early and had breakfast with Hermione who, true to her word, offered to personally escort him until he got the hang of things. 

Since getting magic one year ago Dean had only been able to practice using a wand they had acquired during a hunt. His father had caught one of Grindelwald’s followers unawares while coming home from a bar in San Francisco. The interrogation that had followed had confirmed that the dark wizard knew something of the demons’ plans, but it remained unclear how Grindelwald viewed the situation.

Sam had been able to make the wand work, but Dean had gotten frustrated and opted instead for practicing wandless magic. It was hard, but in a different way. With that janky piece of crap they’d taken off the wizard he’d been able to grasp the spells sooner but they always seemed to slip and go in the wrong direction. Like the time he’d turned Sam’s hair pink instead of making it smoulder like he wanted. 

But wandless magic….wandless magic was different. Sure it was harder to grasp and focus the magic but once he had it, the spell expression was pure, an unfettered expression of the incantation as it flowed through him. He’d never tell his dad, but Dean loved wandless magic, and while he’d gotten a wand from Ollivander’s, truthfully he only had it for show. 

Their first class was Transfigurations with Hufflepuff. Dumbledore kindly invited Dean to sit at the front of the classroom so he wouldn’t miss a thing. Eyes twinkling, he set a muggle pencil down in front of him and got him started trying to transform it into a steel file. It was simple enough, but was his first time using his own wand. The feel of the magic alone took getting used to, and twenty minutes in he had only succeeded in turning the pencil gray.

By this point in the class, Dumbledore could clearly see the boy was struggling, and noticed also that Hermione was fit to burst if she wasn’t allowed to move and help Dean. Her assignment, like everybody else’s was to transform a newspaper into a hideous looking cardigan. 

“I’m sure they’re all the rage….uh, somewhere.” Dumbledore had offered the class encouragingly at the beginning of the lesson.

Hermione slammed down next to him, more closely resembling a force of nature or a drill sergeant than a teenage girl. She took in the situation before her, then sighed. She leaned in and whispered, “You’ve never done this before. What’s wrong?” 

Dean straightened, taken aback at the abrupt earnestness in her voice. She would be right to regard him with suspicion. He was, after all, an intruder in her world. He was a fraud, and though his magic was real and lifelong, he had not been born to it naturally. 

He blinked, then leaned back in and whispered, “I, uh, I ain’t used to this whole using a wand thing. Mine’s new, as a matter of fact.” It was now her turn to sit back. She raised her eyebrows. “What in Merlin’s name do you mean?” She whispered. “That doesn’t make any sense! They don’t even teach wandless magic at Hogwarts! It’s really advanced.” She looked as if she wanted to believe Dean but couldn’t.

Making up his mind quickly, Dean sighed and looked around. No one was watching him. Everyone was either struggling with their lesson or goofing off after having completed it. 

Turning back to the desk, he picked up a new pencil and whispered the spell, his wand laying on the desk, plainly not in hand. The magic rushed through as it normally did, the pencil’s shape blurred and suddenly, it was transformed into a perfect file. 

Smiling triumphantly, he leaned back in his chair. His smile became a grin at the impressed look on Hermione’s face until a shadow fell across their table. He looked up, and saw professor Dumbledore frowning. It was only for an instant however, as suddenly the teacher beamed and announced, “It seems we have a resident expert here on wandless magic! Fifty points to Gryffindor and a hearty congratulations to our newest student, Mr. Winchester!”

Dean turned red, and a hush fell over the class.

It didn’t help that the look on Hermione’s face had gone from impressed to concerned.


	5. First Day of School Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is a good noodle and attends all his classes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really just shooting from the hip here with only a bunch of half formed ideas (and almost zero editing) to guide me

The next lesson was Herbology with Ravenclaw. It didn’t interest him (beyond the fact that some of the plants were close in nature to the monsters he used to hunt) but it was easy. He quickly won the approval of the professor when he demonstrated how to make and apply a poultice after one of the students got too close to an acid spewing aster. What could he say? After having an accident prone baby brother like Sammy he was bound to have some talent for playing nurse.

Next was a free period, which was spent doodling in the library and trying to ignore the worried look Hermione’s face. After was lunch, and then Defense Against the Dark Arts, one of two classes that they had with Slytherin.

As they filed into the room Dean’s heart leapt. Leaning back against the teacher’s desk looking sinfully handsome was none other than Tom Riddle. He smiled that angelic smile, the one that Dean knew to be fake but still found mesmerizing. “Granger. I’m glad to see someone is taking care of our dear Mr. Winchester.” 

At that, Hermione paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. Perhaps unsure of what to say she ignored Riddle and sat down on the far right at the front the class. Dean nodded at Riddle once, wanting to acknowledge him but also heading over to join Hermione in the corner. She was his first and only friend, which surprisingly took precedence over the stirring between his legs. 

\---------------------

Riddle’s mood darkened as the American went and sat down next to Mudblood Granger. Sure, Tom’s dislike of muggleborns was no secret, but he had at least been civil towards Granger these last three years. And his opening today had been downright friendly. He scowled as he took his seat. At least Winchester had acknowledged him before leaving. 

No, that won’t do he thought grimly. I cannot go soft on him, no matter what else I may think of the boy. If he is to take his place at my side he must be worthy. He cannot have both me and the mudblood.

At that moment professor Merrythought strode thunderously into the room, and the class began. 

\---------------------

That first lesson they headed straight into shielding charms. Apparently during her vacation Merrythought had seen a pair of young wizards practicing their dueling skills in Greece, and neither had been capable of producing a simple shielding charm. That simply wouldn’t do, she announced. “Dodging is for muggles.” She said plainly.

“Let’s start with the basics. Mr. Winchester, how would you go about blocking a stunning spell?” She asked, determined not to go easy on the new pupil.

Dean blushed. He’d practiced the shield charm a few times, but had forgotten the incantation.

“Well, in America, people use stuff to block spells.” He said, thinking quickly to a conversation that he had had with Pam about national dueling styles. “You can move objects into the path of travel of the spell, or conjure a shield out of thin air. A shield made of things, that is.” A few of the students sniggered, and professor Merrythought raised her eyebrows.

“Although considered unorthodox here, that is a valid method of protecting oneself in a fight. In fact, if a substantial enough object is used, it can even be an effective strategy for blocking some of the darkest curses available to wizardkind. Ten points to Gryffindor.” He reddened, definitely not wanting to draw anymore attention to himself after this morning’s debacle in Transfiguration. He could feel eyes on him, including Tom’s.

“Now, would anyone care to demonstrate the shield charm? Ms. Granger, how about you?” Hermione stood up, clearly ready, and squared her shoulders. Professor Merrythought fired a simple disarming spell at her, which she deflected with the incantation, protego. After this the professor began pairing them off with the instructions to follow the example, using only expelliarmus as the offensive spell. She muttered angrily about being forced to coddle the fourth years and how such simple exercises would never prepare them in time for the real world. Dean liked her. 

A confident dark beauty by the name of Walburga Black tried to pair off with Dean, but Tom stepped smugly between them. She scowled but slunk away to practice with a boy named Avery. Smirking, Tom asked, “So, Dean. Who will be the instigator?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively, looking dark and mischievous. Dean gulped. “I, uh, I guess I will be.” 

\---------------------  
That night after dinner, Tom lay in bed thinking yet again about his favorite green-eyed American boy. Dean had exceptional talent, but there was something somewhat off about his magic. 

Tom was trying to fit all the pieces together. By now he had heard about Dean’s wandless transfiguration achievement, itself very puzzling coming from another teen. The dinner table at Slytherin had been absolutely abuzz at the news of such accomplishment from their mysterious foreigner. Many had glanced at Tom with curiosity, perhaps wondering what he knew about the boy. Maybe, they thought, he had had an inkling all along for Dean’s innate magical talent, and that was why Tom was showing such an interest in him.

Another thought, by now familiar, weighed in. Dean wasn’t very good with a wand. Sure, he could produce spells with it--some of the time, at least--but he didn’t seem comfortable with it at all. It took extra effort and focus to bring his power to bear through the wizarding world’s most important tool. The spells he had cast today during their defense practice had felt off somehow, like the magic didn’t quite fit within the lines drawn by the wand. But it couldn’t have been that the wand was mismatched. Ollivander was young but already very famous for having pushed the bounds of wandlore like none before him. He always matched the wand to the witch or wizard perfectly. 

Dean had said that he had outgrown his old wand, that over time it hadn’t suited him anymore. Before Ollivander such a thing had been seen from time to time in Britain as well. Wandlore had lacked the finesse necessary to match wand to wizard for life without the user ever growing apart from the tool. This part of the tale, thought Tom, was believable.

He wondered whether Dean was just settling into his new wand, or if he was lying about….something. As Tom thought more and more on the subject, he realized that Dean’s knowledge of magic and the wizarding world felt superficial, as if learned but not experienced. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something that made it feel rehearsed somehow, and not experienced. Tired after an exhausting first day, Tom’s thoughts at last turned lazily to the last question he had been pondering. 

If Dean was lying, would that make Tom want him any less?

Sleep claimed him before he could have his own answer.


	6. The First Weeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tries to find his footing and figure out who the Head Cheerleaders are around here (so to speak)

Chapter 6

The weeks flew by after that. Dean soon fell into a routine. It became less awkward, but the vestiges of his anxiety were hard to dispel. He was risking so much being undercover here, and he had no experience with this kind of thing. What was worse was that he was completely cut off from his friends and family. He wasn’t even sure yet if he could go home for Christmas. His dad had said he would try to send word either way, but Dean wasn’t sure how that would work out unless John Winchester somehow got ahold of a wizarding owl. 

To most people at Hogwarts, Dean was a charming, handsome, boy from America, if a little simple in how he spoke. His knowledge of magic and the magical world were patchy at best, but most people ignored that. He had a brilliant mind, and his ability to learn spells was decent. His teachers were drawn to the outward confidence that they saw, and to the inner vulnerability that they sensed. His use of wandless magic that day in Dumbledore’s lesson had become legend, though since that day he had been careful only to use a wand when in public.

Hermione stuck close by him. He wasn’t sure why; it didn’t seem to be attraction or suspicion. He could only hope that she genuinely liked him. She was a good conversationalist and an excellent student. With Grindelwald on the loose and things tense within Hogwarts, people in the Light houses were drawn to her strength, both magical and of character. Dean noticed how the weak flocked to her, and how even the strongest Dark students of Slytherin kept their distance. He sensed the tension but didn’t fully understand what was going on. 

If Tom had been anyone else, things would have been extremely awkward, Dean decided. Though Hermione clearly did not like him, Tom insisted on going out of his way to insert himself into their space. He was always polite and charming to them both, so the glacial chill that Hermione returned seemed totally out of place. But Dean genuinely liked Tom. He knew there was more to the boy than was being let on, but he felt he had to expect that from everyone. At least with Tom, he knew there was another layer, even if he didn’t know what it was. 

Still, he found himself wondering exactly what was going on. Already dealing with nerves over classes and his general situation, he decided not to ask. 

One day, while studying in the Common Room, Hermione broached the subject of her own accord.

“Dean,” she said gently, unsure of how to begin, “You do know that Tom Riddle is a blood purist, right?”

Dean frowned. In all of his conversations with Tom, the topic had never been discussed outright. Still, what Hermione said made sense; it was consistent with Tom’s arrogant air and reverence towards magical society. 

Not knowing what to say, Dean remained silent a moment longer. “I guess I just didn’t know.” He admitted, staring down at the text he’d been reading. The thought that Tom was a bigot disturbed him, as he knew he couldn’t overlook this character flaw. Not only was it immoral, but also dangerous. Dean was, after all, a muggle by birth. He couldn’t risk his life or his mission by having Tom find out.

Hermione watched him carefully. She felt that Dean had a good heart, but she had to be careful. To her, blood purism wasn’t an idea, but an existential threat. 

“He was quiet about it at first,” she began. “Our first year, he didn’t really know much about himself. But since then he’s built up this persona of being a lost son of the sacred twenty eight, and everyone believes him.” She bit her lip. “We were friends first year, sort of. But then we started competing, and he went cold second year.”

“Why does he care about that shit?” Dean asked, the question coming out more forcefully than he intended. He was angry. He wanted to be closer to Tom, and thought he might be a good friend and ally, like Hermione. The stress of having to constantly tread carefully was weighing on Dean. 

Hermione sighed. The inner psychology of Tom Riddle was not something she wanted to delve into right now. “I don’t know,” she lied, trying to keep the situation simple. “I don’t think he’s a Grindelwald supporter per se, but I think that’s just because he thinks he can do better, see?” She winced as she said Grindelwald’s name. Ever since arriving, Dean had had a certain amount of tension whenever his personal history was brought up. Rumors abounded that a personal loss was what instigated his dad relocating him all the way to Britain. Not wanting to make him uncomfortable, she changed the topic, and asked him what he knew about Quidditch. 

To a wizard raised in magical society this would have been a strange question. Dean, Hermione noted, wasn’t fazed in the slightest.


	7. Walk And Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Dumbledore go for a stroll

For a few days after that Dean wondered what flying would be like. His father had intended to get ahold of a broom but had been unable to in time. That part of Dean’s training had been sacrificed in favor of spell basics and getting his story memorized. 

It wasn’t long, however, before he got his chance to find out just what the experience would be like.

It was a Saturday morning towards the end of September. Dean was sitting at breakfast with Hermione listening to her describe the strategy she used for determining which assignments were the priority.

“So you see, it’s really more about the disposition of the professor, rather than how much you think the assignment should be weighted. That’s what so many students get wrong--” She explained earnestly.

“Good morning, Miss Granger!” A warm, genial voice sounded behind them. Dean and Hermione turned at once and saw Professor Dumbledore beaming for all the world. 

“Er, good morning, professor,” She returned, turning slightly pink. She clearly wondered how much of the conversation he had heard. 

“Miss Granger, may I say, some days I think it should be you teaching classes! I do hope you’ll consider it one day.” His eyes sparkled jovially. Blushing, Hermione seemed even more flustered than before. 

Turning to Dean, he lowered his voice. “Mr. Winchester, would you walk with me a moment please?” His tone had turned sombre. 

Now it was Dean’s turn to be flustered. Unsure if he was in trouble or had somehow been caught out, Dean replied, “Uh, sure thing, professor.” He nodded at his friend and joined Dumbledore in leaving the hall.

As they left, Dumbledore began to explain. “I apologize. Normally I would engage you in small talk, perhaps regale you with all the thrilling news of Hogwarts’ going-ons, but if I did I fear you might burst with curiosity.” Dean reddened. His dad would be pissed if he knew Dean was so easy to see through.

“Uh, sorry sir.” He began, searching internally for a plausible explanation. “It’s just, you see, my family would be real mad--”

“That’s enough of that, dear boy.” Dumbledore said softly, and his eyes were twinkling. They were passing through the doors of the Great Hall and turned towards the pitch. “I’ve been keeping my eye on you, Dean. For your sake, and the sake of all our students.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Forgive me for my suspicions. We live in strange and dark times indeed, and I must be vigilant against any followers of Grindelwald. I was not sure if you were a plant of his, at least not at first.” 

“And now?” Dean asked, his confidence returning as the subject came out in the open. 

“Not I only have I been observing your progress socially, but academically as well.” He paused mid-stroll and turned to Dean. “Your level academically is rather astounding, Dean. What you lack in formal knowledge, you make up for with a certain…” He tilted his head, then smiled oddly, “je ne sais quoi?” Dean felt the heat rise in his face again. Sammy would know what that kind of fancy crap meant. 

Dumbledore pressed on. “To be frank, I can see you have little experience with most magic, even with wands. That does not, however, mean that you lack magical talent.” He resumed walking.

“Yeah, like I said, I never really had formal schooling. My dad was unorthodox, and we moved around a lot. Things have really gone to shit--gone downhill over there” Dean explained. 

“Hmm.” Dumbledore said. “It seems another discussion is in order. With our problems in Europe we have failed to look beyond our own shores. I regret this. I have received word recently about the demon attacks in America. We will do more to try to understand the situation and send aid.” He vowed solemnly.

“You...you will?” Dean asked, stunned. The wizarding world’s ignorance and inaction had always confused him. It seemed for so long as if the demon army in America would be insurmountable by the time anything was done about it. 

“Yes,” Dumbledore promised, “I will. But Grindelwald will also need to be confronted. But, these things are not the only reason we are here today.”

They had arrived at a stadium of sorts, the Quidditch pitch, according to Hermione. And there, circling above them high in the air, were two students Dean had never met before, passing a ball back and forth without a care in the world.

Dean grinned. He’d always loved sports. Moving around a lot as a kid meant that he’d never been able to be a part of a time for very long, though.

Dumbledore smiled mischievously. 

“Today, Mr. Winchester, we’re going to teach you how to fly.”


	8. Tryouts

Dean’s grin grew wider as his Transfiguration professor showed him the broom he’d be riding. “You’re going to teach me how to ride a broom?” Dean asked teasingly. Lifting his arm so that it was parallel to the ground, Dumbledore summoned a second broom that Dean hadn’t noticed before. “Absolutely,” he said with a smile.

By now the other kids had noticed them and were landing. 

A girl with silvery hair and a dreamy gaze approached first, followed by a boy Dean’s age with flaming red hair. He was quite handsome, Dean noted, his red hair starkly contrasting with the overcast sky. 

“Mr. Winchester, please meet Ms. Luna Lovegood and Mr. Septimus Weasley,” Dumbledore said cheerfully. 

The girl smiled dazedly and spun around, declaring, “Professor Dumbledore, we’ve cleared the Hambaculars for you!”

Dean frowned, having not heard the word before. Seeing his confusion, Luna’s spinning came to a halt. “Hambaculars are a real threat around these parts Dean.” She said seriously, speaking to him as if she had known him for years. “They fly through the air and if they catch you they confuse your sense of direction, causing you to fly any which way until eventually you aim for the ground. But even if you survive the effects are quite serious. Exposure to them for any length of time makes you fart marmalade for a month.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. Even he was having a hard time believing this. The boy behind Luna was barely keeping in his laughter. Dumbleodore, however nodded sagely. “Please refresh my memory, Miss Lovegood,” he asked solemnly “How is one able to rid the space of these creatures?”

“Why it’s obvious of course, professor. One need only read a book on common magical housepests to know that they’re closely related to the Common Snorcack. So, all one needs is to wear a charm of carved amber shaped like a favorite vegetable snack.” She lifted hers up proudly. Dean squinted and saw it was shaped like a potato chip.

“Ah, I see,” Dumbledore said, nodding. “Very well, let us begin!”

\---------------------  
Dean loved flying. As soon as the broom was in hand and he was securely mounted he pushed off and rocketed thirty feet in what felt like the blink of an eye. Then he shot forward, ignoring the cries of surprise from his peers and not hearing Dumbledore’s appreciative chuckle. Deciding after a minute not to panic them any further, he turned and circled around, grinning. Septimus caught up quickly, Luna trailing along behind quite dreamily. 

“Blimey Dean, that was crazy!” He said, pulling even with the sandy haired American boy. “Have you ridden often, then?”

Dean shook his head. “Nah, my dad didn’t care much for this kind of thing. Thought it was a waste of time. Too traditional, too, I guess.” 

By this point Dumbledore and Luna caught up. Dean noticed that his professor had been taking his time in crossing the pitch. But he caught that mischievous twinkle in the aging man’s eyes as he produced red ball from his robes and began explaining the rules of Quidditch. He insisted on being first to try to cross the pitch with the Quaffle and score. “At my age, you need every advantage you can get to stay one step ahead of you whippersnappers.” He explained. 

Septimus seemed unsure of how to handle the situation; besting his professor and Head of House didn’t seem like an ideal outcome, but neither did losing. Dean, however, wasn’t fooled; as soon as they began Dumbledore shot off like a comet across the pitch, the three students unable to catch up until well after he had scored the first point. 

From there it heated up, with the four of them divided into two teams. It wasn’t a proper Quidditch match by a long shot, but it was a good chance to practice flying and trying to score with the Quaffle. Septimus and Dumbledore were a formidable pairing, but they were no match for Dean and Luna. Dean’s natural talent for athletics and flying let him move around the pitch with the quaffle at a formidable speed. Then, as soon as the other two had closed in on him, Luna would appear out of nowhere to snag the Quaffle and score. He could have sworn he heard her murmur something about domesticating Hambaculars and turning them to your advantage. 

They flew for hours, Septimus eventually showing Dean a few maneuvers he was pretty sure weren’t for new kids. Dean blushed when he noticed Dumbledore watching them with what appeared to be consternation. Moments later, he nearly fell off his broom laughing as the old man raced by him and Septimus and did a handstand. 

“Old, but still spry!” The Gryffindor Head of House cried happily. Dean, Luna, and Septimus all cheered. 

Finally it began to rain, and they landed on the side of the pitch that was closest to the school. They made their way back to the Entrance Hall, Dean wondering why they couldn’t fly the entire way. 

“Ms. Lovegood, you may go. Mr. Winchester, I would appreciate it if you accompany Mr. Weasley and myself to my office.” Dumbledore said, after casting charms on them all to keep them warm on the way. 

Smiling and waving at them, Luna set off towards the Ravenclaw Tower. They made their way in silence to the Transfiguration classroom, all exhausted from flying. Dumbledore’s office was at its back.

Stepping inside last, Dean paused to take in the decorations. His professor clearly loved jazz, and had wallpapered the room with posters of famous singers. He grinned. He could respect that. 

He set down next to Septimus but across from Dumbledore. “Mr. Winchester, have you ever thought about playing Quidditch?”


	9. The Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If anything is off about the way this Quidditch game goes/the rules are off just pretend 1940s Quidditch is a little different
> 
> xoxo

Chapter 9

After making the team Dean felt quite a bit happier. He still had Hermione during classes and in the Common Room, but now his schedule felt a bit more satisfying. As a new student he was only taking the core classes: Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, History of Magic, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Herbology. He would be allowed to choose electives in his second semester, or during his fifth year if he so chose (though doing so would put him even further behind). He hadn’t realized before, but at the beginning of the year he had quite a bit of leisure time, a situation which had not helped his anxious mind. 

Now, however, he trained regularly with his teammates. With the war on tensions at school between the Houses were higher than ever, and Gryffindor was determined to trounce Slytherin in every way possible. That included Quidditch. While impressed with his flying skills and on friendly terms with him from first practice, Captain Edgar Bones worked him hard. A Keeper himself, Bones stressed teaching Dean strategy, flying formations and techniques, and working together as a team. It was here that Dean struggled the most, as the different roles in Quidditch were a lot for him to take in. The training reminded him of the schooling his dad had given him back home in how to deal with supernatural monsters. 

“You’re doing fine!” said Ellory Abbott one day after practice. The team’s Seeker, she had a small build and was nearly impossible to keep track of on the field. She had hazel eyes and dark brown hair that she wore in a braid down her back. “It’s a lot to take in if you’re new at actually playing the game. It’s one thing to watch or even to practice flying, but to be on a team? That takes a lot of practice.” She reassured him. He beamed back and was about to respond when he noticed the slightly predatory look in her eyes. After years of watching his dad fight monsters Dean knew danger when he saw laid eyes on it, and a teenage crush solidly qualified. Reducing the force of his smile, he said awkwardly, “Yeah, thanks.” She reddened and turned away, and he cringed internally, knowing that his answer had somehow only made things worse. 

Luckily he was saved by Septimus, who swooped in at that moment. “Can you believe we’ve got our first match next week?” He practically crowed. Dean went cold.

“Already?” He asked, guessing the answer. He counted the days mentally and realized that this week was Halloween, which meant that next week was November.

“Sure thing!” The redhead said excitedly. He clapped Dean on the back. “Don’t worry, we’re going to be absolutely brilliant.” Dean swallowed and continued to force himself to smile before heading up the hill in silence. 

\---------------------

The day of the match dawned cold and overcast, though not rainy, thankfully. Dean rose early to get breakfast with the rest of the team. He took it easy and just had porridge, not trusting himself with more. His friends all teased him for not having more, Ellory declaring that she expected their newest member to down at least one pie before leading them to victory. He grinned. This part of Hogwarts wasn’t so bad.

As the other Houses began filling the Hall they adjourned to the changing room, where Edgar Bones gave one his famous, rousing, half an hour pre-game speeches. The other teammates’ eyes glazed over a few minutes in, but Dean paid close attention, if for no other reason that to distract himself from any anxious thoughts that threatened to overtake him. 

Soon enough it was time for the game. They filed out onto the field, listened to the time honored lecture on fairness from Amelia Earhart, the flying instructor (the name sounded familiar to Dean), and then suddenly they were off.

The first few minutes were a tense blur, with Dean trying to keep in mind everything he had been taught about Quidditch these past few weeks. Slytherin got the Quaffle first thing, but Dean and the other Chasers were close behind. He, Septimus, and a girl named Caroline Godfrey worked together to herd the other team’s chaser towards the left goal post. Edgar made a last minute save and threw it to Dean, who caught it and made off towards the other side of the pitch. He had practiced this dozens of times in the past few days, but it had never felt this exhilarating. 

Of all the things Dean would come to experience at Hogwarts, this game would forever be etched into his memory as clear as the day that he played it. The match was played hard and dirty, with him, the other Chasers, and the Beaters constantly on the move. Septimus crashed into a Slytherin player named Avery Atticus while trying to get the Quaffle from him; both players plummeted to the ground. Assured before the game that such players would be fine, Dean snatched the ball and threw it to Caroline, who was struck shortly after by a Bludger. At that point Slytherin had scored seventy points and Gryffindor only thirty. He didn’t stop to think about how bad the odds were, considering the Gryffindor Beaters had been all but useless so far in this match and he was the only Chaser on his team left flying. 

Instead, years of training as a Hunter came into play. He bobbed and weaved among the teams, always keeping an eye on the ball while also keeping track of everything around him. In their war against the Supernatural his father had trained him to be disciplined not only physically but also mentally, and never had he been more grateful than during this game. He dived, he rose, he even spun around his broom to avoid Bludgers. He intercepted opposing Chasers out of nowhere, and learned quickly the habits and strategies of his opponents. 

His opponents grew increasingly desperate to catch him or knock him off his broom. The other team’s Beaters and Chasers were all focused on him now. If someone had told Dean that morning that this would be the case he would have been morbid, but now, he felt untouchable. It wasn’t even about his House anymore, or proving himself, or any other thing. Flying was magic, and for the first time since coming to Hogwarts, so was he. 

Finally a whistle sounded; the Snitch had been caught. The only clue in the lead up had been a change in tempo of the shrieking of the crowd, but Dean had ceased paying them any mind hours ago. Aiming his broom towards the ground, Dean felt like he was coming out of a trance. His muscles were sore from gripping and aiming his broom for so long, but he didn’t care. He landed on Gryffindor’s side of the field with what was left of his teammates and belatedly took a look at the score.

Slytherin 80. Gryffindor 280.

Gryffindor had won.


	10. The Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's a Quidditch hero except to Slytherins
> 
> Also he and Tom have some talkin' to do
> 
> I promise that someday I'll go through and actually edit this
> 
> There's lots of arcs at play here which will eventually be revealed
> 
> Also, trigger warning for gore and minor character deaths in this chapter

After the match, things changed, and they didn’t change. The public curiosity over who Dean was shifted. It went from hushed whispers and private speculation to open adoration and attention, at least among Gryffindors. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were jubilant but wary, as they knew they would face this team later in the year. Slytherin was mute, with the students wanting to retaliate but fearing Tom’s ire. Not that Dean was aware, however.

He welcomed the positive attention, taking to it outwardly like a cat to cream. Inside he was still anxious; for every positive thing that happened, an equally strong fear emerged that he would lose it all. As time passed he felt himself not only wanting to fit in here, but to stay in this world forever. It was stable, fascinating, and...right. And at that thought Dean felt guilty and wondered what his dad would say. Nothing good, if he knew Dean was appreciating magic and the supernatural. 

In public Dean tried his best to live up to this new image. He was friendlier and smiled more often, though he still listened more than he spoke while he continued absorbing new information about the magical world and its culture. He stayed close to Hermione, knowing instinctively that she was a loyal friend dedicated to helping him, though her motivation remained unclear. He even made time for the rest of the Quidditch Team, deciding to spend the last Hogsmeade trip of the season with them. 

But there was one presence missing from his life after the game and that was Tom’s. With final exams rapidly approaching Dean had at first put it down merely to the other boy being busy with his studies. His reputation for being a straight O student was legendary, and so his absence made sense for a while. But as November wore on Dean noticed that Tom left classrooms too quickly once dismissed, and that he was often shielded bodily by friends anytime. Finally he had enough.

Following Tom after a particularly difficult day of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Dean called his name loudly. Tom, surrounded by lackeys, stiffened and turned. “Dean?” he asked mildly. 

“We need to talk.” Dean answered.

And then Tom did something that Dean had never seen nor expected him to do.

He rolled his eyes.

“We’re talking now.” He answered, as if Dean were simple.

Dean inhaled sharply. He pointed at a door to his left that he knew led to an empty classroom. It flew open.

“Inside.” He ordered.

Tom’s eyes widened slightly at the display of nonverbal, wandless magic. Giving no other sign of his surprise he followed Dean inside and quietly shut the door behind them.

\---------------------

Out in the hallway, a hush remained over the Gryffindor and Slytherin Defense students. Everyone strained to try to make out the details of what would undoubtedly come to be a shouting match within. After a few moments Atticus Avery sneered and said loudly, “I told him that Mudblood Granger would get Winchester on her side eventually. Enough sniveling and anyone would come on over.”

Hermione flushed and drew her wand, clearly having heard enough. Septimus Weasley stepped between them and drawled, “Now now, Atty, one of these days you won’t have school rules to protect you, or your daddy’s influence. I’d run along, and remember, play nice with the other kids from now on!”

\---------------------

Once inside the classroom, Dean cleared his throat and blurted out, “Why?”

Clearly upset and angry, Tom’s facade of calm was rapidly fading. “Why what?” He asked. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.” He spat.

Dean stepped forward, his frown almost a pout. “Why have you been avoiding me? I thought we were friends.”

“Because, Dean, I’ve no interest in being friends with Mudblood lovers. You have--” Tom bit his lip and glanced away for a moment, “--had potential.”

“Potential for what?” Dean asked, raising his voice. “And don’t--don’t call her that.” He stumbled over his words, belatedly realizing he should also be defending Hermione.

Tom strode forward as well, stopping only when they were a foot apart. “Dean--’ He choked on his words, then steeled himself, silently furious at his own weak display. “Dean.” He repeated, sure that he had the other boy’s full attention. He grimaced, then bit out. “You’re not like us, are you? Not truly born in our world.”

“What?” Dean said, stunned. Of all the things he had expected Tom to say, this wasn’t it. His stomach sank. Tom knew.

“I should’ve seen it that first day really.” Said Tom, his eyes becoming distant, almost wistful. “You tried so hard to hide it, didn’t you? You must’ve studied before coming. Maybe even practiced. I can’t imagine coming all the way to another country just to hide the shame and embarrassment,” he paused, waiting for the effect to sink in, “of being a Mudblood.” 

Dean’s head spun. Ok. He thought to himself. That makes sense. At least he doesn't know that I actually don't belong here. He hung his head, and his shoulders slumped. “Yeah.” He admitted in an attempt at damage control. “Yeah, I’m a phony. My dad doesn’t know anything about magic, except--” 

“Except that which he stole from the creatures he hunted. Which no doubt included witches and wizards.” Tom finished for him. Dean winced. He was not entirely sure what all his dad hunted, as Dean had only been allowed in on a few jobs. He wasn’t sure if his dad had in fact hunted humans for having magic, but considering John’s fear of the supernatural--or honestly, of anything different he wouldn’t put him past him. Tom opened his mouth as Dean cast about for a rebuttal, but it was then that the screaming started. 

\---------------------

 

They rushed into the corridor just in time to see several students running away. The rest had backed up against the wall, except for Hermione, who was kneeling next to a prone Septimus Weasley in the middle of the hallway. A blonde boy was opposite him, writhing in agony. Atticus Avery. Stopping short, Dean took in the grisly scene.

Both boys had similar looking afflictions, though Septimus lie unnaturally still. Their insides had been turned out and were infected with what looked like some sort of purple-green magical sickness. Avery would have been screaming, Dean was sure, had his lungs been where they belonged. 

Hermione had her wand out and was murmuring various incantations. She was pale but calm, and had a hardened look about her that was familiar to Dean, yet foreign on the face of a fourteen year old girl. She reminded him of the muggles his dad hunted with, men and women who had seen and experience pain and loss. She looked older. For a moment, Hermione was a veteran soldier. 

Dean barely noticed as Tom swept forward and tried an incantation, though it wasn’t aimed at either victim. All it did was produce a fine stream of silvery missed. Swearing loudly, Tom cast again--something about expecting pronouns, Dean reckoned. When it didn’t work, he snapped at the remaining Slytherins, “Go for help, you louts!” Bowing low, they scattered in every direction. Tom set about trying to heal Avery. Out of his depth and unable to help, Dean could only watch as the two rivals did their best to tend their fallen. Hermione soon gave up, resigned that there was no way to save Septimus. She sighed and closed her eyes, remaining still. Meanwhile, Tom was unable to staunch Avery’s bleeding.

After what felt like an age later, help finally arrived.


	11. Tis the Season Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized the other day that a lot of people reading this are probably more familiar with Harry Potter than Supernatural. So, I’ll clarify a little:  
> I write in very casual American English when writing from Dean’s perspective (which is most of the time) because it better reflects his character persona. That’s also why John Winchester’s letter is written the way it is. 
> 
> Anyway, the story continues! I think it’s going to be a longish one, in total.
> 
> TW for Luna humor

The week after Septimus’ death was tense and uncertain. All the Houses mourned, including some in Slytherin. Septimus had been kind and charismatic, quick to help others and listen to their troubles. He had died in a duel with a dark wizard after all, defending Hermione from his taunts.

Avery Atticus was taken to St. Mungo’s but the outlook remained bleak. According to witnesses Avery had cast a hex at Septimus which had been deflected, and then the duel had gone from there. It had been short lived. A few spells in each cast a curse at the other. The incantations collided perfectly and there was a reaction in the cores that was unexpected and rare (apparently, Avery’s wand was an heirloom and its core was unknown). The result was a curse that rebounded and struck them both, and was the same for both in its nature. 

Exams were canceled, and a special meeting for the school Board of Directors was called over the holiday. With the fate of the whole school in the balance and with Septimus dead, even skipping out on testing did little to lift the spirits of the students. Dean, Tom, Hermione, and every other student present at the duel was called in for questioning by a team of Aurors. Thankfully Dean’s statement was brief as he actually hadn’t seen the fight, only the aftermath. The wizard cops didn’t even administer a truth potion.

At the closing feast the night before Holiday, Dumbledore gave a speech both somber and uplifting. Dean would have been impressed, had he been listening. Instead he was gazing off into space, thinking. 

As the students cleared out, he turned to Hermione. With everything that had happened, he had completely forgotten to see who was staying.

She turned to him, her face set and determined. The hardening of her character worried him once more.

“Hey, are you staying over break?” He asked as everyone filed toward the doors.  
She nodded, looking pensive, then stood. “I’ll be doing some research over the Holiday. You’re free to join me, but it’ll be a little dull.” Dean nodded, glad to have his friend back, even if only a little. 

\---------------------

The first part of the break was pretty alright. Sure, Dean was sad from time to time about Septimus, but he had suffered his share of losses and was no stranger to compartmentalizing. He focused instead on reading about the Wizarding world, continuing to learn all that he could. He focused in particular on the history of blood purity, seeing as was particularly relevant in his life now. 

Hermione, on the other hand, began pouring over a pile of mysterious tomes that Dean was pretty sure came out of the Forbidden section. With a lifetime of pranks and mischief under his belt and having been trained by his own dad to break rules, Dean knew a pilfered stack of loot when he saw one. What caught his eye more than anything, though, was the ridiculous titles she was flipping through. He raised an eyebrow.

“The Witch’s Guide to Podiatric Fungi Cultivation?” He asked incredulously. She looked at him darkly, flipping it closed. She took a breath, no doubt prepared to explain, but another title had come into view. “A Grimm Tale: Looking for Love on the Dark Side as a Post-Flapper Socialite Anarchist,” he read aloud, “What the hell does that even mean.” Hermione stood up, looking outraged and defensive. 

Before she could respond, however, there was a dull series of thuds and a loud bang from behind them. Turning, they saw that one of the bookshelves behind them had toppled over. Behind it stood a rather pleased looking Luna Lovegood. Wearing a pair of rainbow trimmed goggles and a bright pink, fluffy shawl across her shoulders, her smile widened when she saw them. 

“Dean! Hermione!” She greeted them dreamily. Lifting up her robes slightly she stepped daintily onto the bookcase she had just toppled. “I’m glad I arrived when I did! Another minute and they would have made off with you!”

At these words both of the Gryffindors tensed. Unaware of their trepidation, Luna continued, “I’ve been looking for Spangledors, you see. They’re known to seek out knowledge centers as a place to hold their knitting circles. Sort of like pixies, but with knitting needles instead of sharp claws.”

Dean and Hermione exchanged a look, their confrontation forgotten. Turning back to Luna, Hermione said, “Err, Luna, is this really a good time? Dean and I were just in the middle of studying and--”

Before she could finish, Luna interrupted, “But that’s the very best time, you see! Spangledors love to knit when knowledge seekers are nearby. It’s risky, but they believe they might learn from listening in on conversation. They’re illiterate, you see, and crave knowledge.”

Unable to hold back his grin, Dean nodded. This was the most enthusiastic he had ever seen Luna, and he had a degree of fondness for the eccentric Ravenclaw.

“So, uh, why exactly are you looking for them? Need advice on drawing up a new knitting pattern or something?” He asked, nodding to her shawl. He was genuinely curious. Luna beamed. “Oh, this old thing?” she asked, twirling around delicately on top of the bookshelf to give him a full view of it. “This is called a boa, gay men absolutely love them starting in the sixties, I think! I--”

At that, Hermione cleared her throat loudly. “Oh!” said Luna, coming to a halt in her spinning. “Right. The Spangledors are the key, they’ll lead me to the imps which have been stealing all blue ink pots. Then we’ll be one more step to finishing the job, Hermione!” She smiled hopefully.

Hermione, in turn, looked at her askance. “Right Luna, er, thanks for that. I’ve just been doing some reading.”

Luna rushed forward eagerly, bounding off the bookcase and right up to their table. 

“Oh,” she breathed. “Look, you’ve found them! Books on time travel and consequences! Here I’ve been focusing on Spangledors! I should’ve remembered that stopping their thievery would have dire ramifications!”

Dean frowned, confused. “What do you mean, Luna? Hermione’s reading a bunch of junk about fungi and love.”

Luna laughed airily and said, “They’re only enchanted to look that way, to confuse the onlooker. Luckily these goggles are good not only for spotting Spangledors but also illusion auras. Nice work, Hermione! Don’t worry, Dean, it would’ve fooled anyone.” She said, mistaking his confused anger towards Hermione as self loathing for having not seen through the ruse sooner. 

With that, she proceeded to join them in their studies, not even bothering to replace the book shelf to its normal position. “It looks better that way,” she insisted when Hermione brought it up. They fell into silence after that, with Hermione studying, Luna daydreaming and taking notes carelessly on a piece of parchment, and Dean reading a comic strip from a muggle newspaper carried by the library. 

\---------------------

Dean wondered why his best friend at Hogwarts was reading about time travel (in spite of how weird they both were, he did in fact consider Hermione his closest pal). Not wanting to rock the boat, and already drained from his first semester, he wisely decided not to rock the boat. For the first week of the holiday they continued to read together in the library, leaving only for meals and in Dean’s case occasional trips to the Quidditch pitch for some leisure time in the air. He found he didn’t mind the snow after learning a few water repelling and warming charms. 

The castle was emptier this year than in the past. Anxious after the death of a student, many parents insisted their child came home for the entirety of the break, not just Yule itself. After what he had seen that day, Dean couldn’t say he blamed him. Even Tom left, having been invited to go home with Abraxas Malfoy. Dean’s stomach sank whenever he thought about the boy. He didn’t want to think about where he stood with Tom. 

The morning of Christmas Eve Professor Dumbledore approached him, Hermione, and Luna as they ate breakfast at the Hall’s single table. The students silenced upon seeing his approach. His face was neutral but lacked the usual twinkle in his eye. Clearing his throat upon arrival he announced, “Mr. Winchester, this came for you this morning. It was sent by the Ministry. Apparently, your father was unaware of where to address it to.”

Dean’s ears turned red and his face flushed. He accepted the letter. “Uh, thanks.” He said lamely. Dumbledore nodded and wished them well. 

“I, uh, think I’m going to head to the library early. I’ll meet you there.” Dean told his friends. 

\---------------------

Hoping to give himself a little extra time to read and process the letter, Dean chose a table on the far side of the library, next to a window. It would take his friends extra time to find him there. 

Opening the letter, he began reading.

Dean,  
I haven’ t heard from the school. The deal was I’d get a letter with your grades and a note from the Headmaster. I got a note that was sent out to all parents talking about some wigglefingering magic user who got killed in a duel or something. You know anything about that? You better be keeping your head down, boy.

So what’s the deal about grades? Don’t tell me you chickened out on exams. I don’t give a damn if they offer to coddle you, you better not take it. Pam and I trained you and you’re a bright kid when you wanna be. So act like it. You’re not there to have fun and drink beer. You’re there to get into that Ministry of Secrets or whatever and find out more about what the demon that killed your mom. So buck up, be a soldier and make me proud. 

Family first, kid.

John. W.

Dean closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. He breathed deeply while he processed the contents of the letter. Emotion flooded him and he was unable for once to stop it. What his father didn’t say was more important than what he did. It was Christmas Eve, and Dean was only in his fourth year. His father had made no mention of the holidays, nor asked after Dean’s welfare beyond his grades. A simple rating, albeit one that would define his future in the magical world. His father also didn’t mention Dean’s little brother Sam, or the potential offer he had made of possibly bringing Dean home for a visit this winter. Dean wasn’t even sure how to respond. If he was honest with his dad, he could end up cut off, stuck here with strangers--

Dean hadn’t realized that he was crying until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he noticed that his face was wet. Hermione stood there next to him, and for the first time in several days her face showed an emotion beyond simple determination. She looked almost...motherly. Pulling him out of his seat, she then proceeded to pull him into a long, unconditional embrace.


	12. Tis the Season Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since we saw things from Tom's perspective, even if only a little!

The day after Christmas dawned bright and clear at the Malfoy Manor. The lawns and gardens were covered with snow, and ice crystals glittered in the cold, pale light. Early morning found Tom Riddle and Abraxas Malfoy walking the grounds, leveraging the early time to have a private conversation. Though a noble house and deeply prejudiced, Tom doubted that even Malfoy Senior would fully approve of his plans.

Their talk avoided any inane chatter--things like Quidditch, grades (Tom’s were, of course, flawless), or (Tom shuddered at the thought) contemporary music. No, instead the conversation quickly turned back to school, and the events that had recently transpired.

“Any news of Avery?” Asked Abraxas, hopeful that his Lord had had better luck in gleaning information than he.

At the mention of the fool, Tom scowled. “No. It seems the magic is too new, and St. Mungo’s is unable to counter it. The curse that was created has never been seen before. They never announce these things in advance, but between you and I, I doubt he’ll make it.” And good riddance, he thought darkly. That boy had caused nothing but trouble since his entry into Tom’s circle little more than a year ago, and he was ready to be free of his hot temper and brashness in dealing with the enemy. 

Abraxas paused, clearly upset and distraught at Tom’s conjecture. Interesting, thought Tom. Was it friendship, or something more towards Avery that was eating away at the Malfoy heir? Affairs between pureblood males were not unheard of. 

After a moment, Abraxas regained composure and changed the subject slightly. “What do you think will happen? At school, I mean?”

At this, Tom actually relaxed. This topic was more stimulating, for it involved conflict, and strategy. 

He answered Abraxas, “No doubt Dumbledore will balem all of Slytherin. We can use that, but only if we endure quietly and wait for our moment. 

“Moment for what, my Lord,?” asked Abraxas, excitement building.

“Revenge, of course,” said Tom, smiling devilishly. “If one of our Knights has fallen, one of theirs must fall in turn.” He hadn’t liked Avery, but still, there was a principle to be upheld.

“When, my Lord?” Abraxas asked, his eagerness showing plainly now. Even after the duel and possible death of one of his friends, his naïvety was still clear.

“Patience, Malfoy. We bide our time yet. We cannot act openly. When the time comes our involvement must be implausible to the authorities...yet clear to the students. And we must strike at their heart, at a Mudblood who has been filthy enough to stand against us openly.” Tom’s cadence was measured yet passionate. 

Abraxas was nearly vibrating with glee now. “Who my Lord? Granger? Wells, that ugly fellow in Ravenclaw? Or,” he paused, savoring the moment, “that filthy American who betrayed you?” He choked, seeing Tom’s face darken.

“You will know only when you need to know.”

\---------------------

The rest of the day passed smoothly, filled with meals and studying new material in preparation for the new semester. Tom wouldn’t be satisfied until he had read each textbook twice over. Finally dinner was done, and he retired to the guest quarters.

He stared at the ceiling above his bed, waiting for sleep to come. He thought about the conversation with Abraxas, and the choice of who would be his first kill. Emotions swirled within him, but for all his effort, he could not put them to rest.

Still thinking on Malfoy’s question, all he could see in his mind’s eye were a pair of pretty light green eyes, framed by a handsome yet unabashedly dopey American face. Cursing, Tom turned over, finally allowing sleep to claim him.


	13. Thoughts and Conversation

After the incident in the library Hermione warmed up considerably. There were parts of her character that Dean was still confused and unclear on, but his instincts told him that she meant well and was earnest. After everything he had been through these past few months, he was willing to go with his instincts and keep things simple for once.

That didn’t stop him from pondering her inconsistencies, though. A phenomenal witch, Hermione seemed to know more spells than their entire year put together. It went beyond book learning when he thought about it; it almost seemed like she had lived in the real world as a witch and had maybe spent some time in the field.

But she couldn’t have done either. For one thing, at a mere fifteen no one would have accepted her as a summer intern yet, and there was no way she had been around household magic as a muggleborn. There was a look about her as well that spoke volumes. He was no stranger to seeing seasoned veterans.

A veteran of what, he still wondered. The conflict between blood purists and muggleborns did seem to be escalating. Grindelwald had re-emerged in America, and seemed to be aligned with Azazel and his demons. Of course, no one at Hogwarts seemed to know that. This was one area that Dean had the upper hand: dangerous creatures, including demons. Newt Scamander’s book and career were legendary, but still paled in comparison to what the average Hunter saw. 

Whatever Hermione really was, Dean still trusted his instincts and knew she was a friend. With the end of the holiday rapidly approaching she not only helped him catch up on his essays but also get a head start on next semester’s reading material. It was like having his own personal professor. She even encouraged him to practice wandless casting, something he’d tried to steer clear of since drawing so much attention to himself earlier on. She described the subtle differences between casting with or without a wand, and even detailed the possible consequences associated with the latter. 

“It’s really a good thing,” she assured him one day after coaching him in wandlessly levitating objects. Without a wand it was hard to mentally replace the swish and flick motion, but after a few hours of practice he got it. “Wandless magic is considerably more powerful, but raw and unfocused. That’s why the accidental magic that children perform is so astonishing. They’re often capable of feats like apparation or conjuration that only very powerful wizards are usually able to perform.”

Dean blinked. This was the second time he’d heard of accidental magic. 

“Uh, what do you think counts as ‘accidental magic,’ here? Like, would what I did that day in class count?” He asked, referring to his first day in Transfiguration. 

“No, not at all actually,” Hermione replied, leaning back in her desk. They were practicing in an empty classroom. “Accidental magic is usually must more dramatic, as I said. And you wanted to do the transfiguration, you just didn’t think about the fact that you weren’t holding your wand.”

Something stirred in the back of Dean’s mind, something having to do with Sam. Noticing that Hermione was watching him intently, Dean shook himself and asked to learn another spell. 

\---------------------

Alone that night in the Boy’s dormitory, Dean sat and pondered some memories from his childhood, of when he and Sam had been young. Once, left alone and without any money for the weekend, Dean could have sworn the leftover cornbread their dad had left them with had multiplied on its own. Other events started flooding into his mind, like the times he came into the kitchen to find little Sammy up on the counter, with no possible way of having reached it on his own. Or that time that Sam had asked their dad for pink clothes, and pretty soon after, his entire wardrobe was the color of bubblegum. John Winchester had stormed off for the night, but their Uncle Bobby had showed up soon after and had laughed himself to tears.

Come to think of it, there had been plenty of weird events scattered throughout Dean's adolescence. He had always put it down to supernatural phenomena or, if he was feeling sappy, the angels his mother so frequently talked about when he was little. It wasn’t just Sam, either. He--Dean--had been alone for some of this. And the few times John had been around, he had been furious after. Dean had put it down to the individual situations and to John Winchester’s general orneriness, but now that he thought about it, it seemed to be the accidental magic that Hermione had mentioned.

This simple conclusion made so much sense that it seemed unquestionable to Dean, a boy who all too often told himself untruths to make life easier. He sat down on his bed and moved on to the next set of questions. How did he have magic? Didn’t his dad say that he did a ritual sacrifice just to make Dean and Sam wizards? John had gone as far as to say that the sacrifice had been terrible and not to ask. For a man like John to say that, that statement had been so telling that Dean never did question him further. Sam had been curious, but Dean had kept his head down during his last year with his dad. Something had been different. John had become...less than pleasant to talk to. 

Sighing, Dean resolved to try and contact his brother as soon as possible. He wasn’t sure how that would be possible from a continent away, but Hermione was bound to know.


	14. Welcome Back

Chapter 14

Classes finally resumed, for which Dean was grateful. At the welcome back feast, Headmaster Dippet announced a new policy: Slytherin and Gryffindor were to be segregated, until further notice. No classes were to be held together, and extracurricular organizations (other than Quidditch) were discouraged from enabling or organizing competition between the two. All other inter-house relations were to remain as they were. 

It was revealed that Atticus had been put into a form of stasis until healers could better assess his condition. Dippet did not explicitly say so, but many students whispered that it was likely to be years before healers would come any closer to a conclusion regarding his condition. The consequences for any inter-House conflict, he added, would be severe. 

Unwilling to allow all this to dampen his mood, Dean took the opportunity to celebrate having his friends back. It felt strange, having friends. Hermione, Luna, a second year named Minerva, and a boy in his year named Franklin Abbott sat together and exchanged stories of their holiday. 

“What did you get up to, Luna? You didn’t stay the whole break, I noticed.” Hermione asked. If there was a bitter note in her voice towards the end, no one seemed to notice except Dean. 

“The chocolate factory in Manchester, of course!” Luna exclaimed, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Seeing Hermione’s raised eyebrows, she added, “I was looking for clues. The secondary ghosts there are the most knowledgeable in all of Britain.”

“Er, secondary ghosts?” Franklin asked, reluctant to involve himself but clearly intrigued. An Abbott by birth, Frank’s mother was a Black, and he had that family’s dark good looks. In spite of his heritage, he was friendly regardless of a person’s blood status. 

Luna nodded patiently. “Yes. Primary ghosts haunt people or physical spaces. Secondary ghosts haunt other ghosts though, to try and torment them. They’re crazy but insightful. And they can’t lie.” The table fell silent for a moment, and Dean changed the subject. 

The conversation turned to the Quidditch World Cup, which was to be held this upcoming summer. Dean’s gut clenched slightly at the mention of summer--his dad had made no mention of any plans to come and get him. He was loathe to approach the Headmaster or Professor Dumbledore to find out what his options were. 

“Everyone is saying it’ll be between the UK and France this year!” Minerva said excitedly, sitting so far forward on the bench that Dean feared she might fall off. A girl of few words usually, Minerva’s youth showed through at the mention of certain topics--in particular, Quidditch. Hermione scoffed and turned away, seeking other conversation partners. The others in the group were hooked, though. Even Luna showed interest.

“Nah, I hear Indonesia’s gonna pull through,” said Dean. Usually he wasn’t so confident making such bold statements about the wizarding world, but over break he’d done his research. “And it might be Mexico instead of France, if they beat Spain,” he added. 

“Either way, my dad’s already got tickets!” Franklin exclaimed. “Dean, you should come with us.” 

Dean chuckled, thinking about his family and their finances. His dad got by at financing their lifestyle--and their hunting--by robbing banks occasionally, but that didn’t mean they stayed rich for long, or that he had anything other than muggle money. “Nah, I don’t have that kind of money. Maybe next time.” Franklin frowned, but before he could reply, a shadow fell across their table. 

It was only Professor Dumbledore, thankfully. His eyes twinkled as he queried, “Miss Granger, could I have a word?” Seeing Dean rise as well, the Transfiguration teacher bowed his head and said, “This matter concerns only myself and Miss Granger, I am afraid.” He continued to smile, but his eyes were no longer sparkling. “Enjoy your meal!” He wished them pleasantly. With that, he and Hermione departed.   
Frowning, Dean sat and turned back to eating. The friend in him wanted to trust Hermione. The Hunter wanted to know more. 

\---------------------

Unnoticed, Tom watched the exchange with curiosity. With the arrival of Dean earlier that year he had been put off from learning more about Granger. That Dumbledore was going off to speak to her alone spoke volumes. He needed to know more.

\---------------------

Classes brought back a much needed sense of normalcy, though it was strange for Tom not to have classes with Gryffindor. Not that he missed the Lions and their bravado. He certainly did not miss having to manage his Snakes and keep them from lashing out every time a Gryffindork said or did something antagonistic. 

Sitting in Transfiguration, now with Hufflepuff, his mind turned back to Granger once again. It was a welcome distraction from ruminating about Dean. She had seemed suspicious to him from second year on, when he began to notice inconsistencies. Her outspoken brashness about blood politics was very Gryffindor, but her skills and abilities were far beyond any other student, even him. This intellect was more Ravenclaw than anything. But there were things she knew about magic that went beyond simple talent. No Hogwarts underclassman should know how to conjure or vanish items, for example, and even three and a half years of obsessive reading did not make a Mudblood into a living encyclopedia like Granger. 

But why would she hide her true upbringing if she had been raised in the Wizarding world? Being a wizard-raised Mudblood certainly gave better standing than one raised by muggles. He shuddered, thinking about the orphanage. He wondered suddenly where Dean would go this summer and frowned. Granger apparently had a tumultuous homelife but was not sent to an orphanage like Tom, but where she went was a secret. He had stopped associating with her years ago. It grated on Tom that she received special treatment, with no real reason as to why. 

He couldn’t tell if he wanted to spend time with Dean or not. On the one hand, the orphanage was a miserable and humiliating experience. On the other hand, it would be the same for Dean, and Tom had a vindictive desire to find creative ways to torment him and learn more about who he was. It still infuriated him that the boy had gotten so far into Tom’s...mind without being detected as a liar and a Mudblood. Raw talent at wandless casting had clearly diverted Tom’s attention from the boy’s serious shortcomings. 

For the first time in years Tom began a class with a frown on his face, a frown which deepened immensely when Dumbledore noticed and beamed merrily at him.


	15. Dinner, Drama, and Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *TW for homophobic language and behavior*

There was something both liberating and stifling about being separated from Slytherin for Dean. On the one hand he felt a weight lifted from his shoulders; he didn’t have to worry about Snakes picking a fight, or about Tom Riddle’s enigmatic behavior. Handsome sack of shit. On the other hand there was something now lacking from his lessons without them, a perspective other classmates didn’t have. Though he was a Lion through and through, a part of Dean really appreciated cleverness and subtlety. Certainly it had served his family well on Hunts. Without Sammy these past few months, Dean sure felt vulnerable without these kinds of smarts. Hermione was shrewd and clever, but he still wasn’t sure what was going on there. 

The first prank seemed like an accident. Carol Petersen, a muggleborn Gryffindor third year, was sent to the Hospital Wing from her early morning Potions class. That morning they had been making an arthritis balm as a warm up for the semester, and it seemed that she had somehow replaced mole mucus with Basilisk venom. Though seemingly accidental, it did seem rather odd as she was usually an ace in Potions, and Basilisk venom wasn’t even out on the counter during class. The class had been with Ravenclaw.

The story raised the hairs on Dean’s neck at dinner that night, but his friends assured him that it was nothing to worry about. All of them except for Hermione, that was, who shared a dark look at him after their friends had turned back to discussing Quidditch. 

A week later, while at dinner again, they heard a shriek from the Ravenclaw table. A Gryffindor boy named Dwight Richards was sitting with friends there when opened up his book bag to show them something--and out came a Boggart. It took the form of the boy sitting across from him, a handsome lad in seventh year. Standing on the table, it began to mock him, calling him a fool and a faggot, It jeered at him for his apparent crush and seemed on its way to even greater vulgarity when Dumbledore intervened, having crossed the hall as quickly as possible. 

Dwight fled from the hall to a chorus of laughter from the Slytherin table. About half of Ravenclaw joined in, with Hufflepuff and Gryffindor nearly mute. 

The blood drained from Dean’s face as dread filled him, only to be replaced with heat as he flushed with shame. Looking across the hall, he spotted Tom and felt sick. Tom was laughing gayly with Orion Black. Turning, Tom’s gaze locked with his. His laughter died in an instant as he saw Dean’s face. Feeling his eyes prick with tears Dean turned back to his food, determined not to look up. Shame continued to wrack him as he spent the rest of the meal thinking about John Winchester, and what he would think if he knew what his son really was. 

\---------------------

Over at the Slytherin table, Orion continued to howl with laughter. Tom, though, was silent. And rather then send Orion a customary glare to cut short his fun, Tom did something rather out of character. He turned away from Dean and the Gryffindor table that sat across the hall, and let Orion have his moment, while he himself had his. 

Why was Dean so upset? He wasn’t even this disturbed the Basilisk venom incident. Did this mean…?

No, he thought darkly. It doesn’t matter if he like me. He’s dirty, a muggleborn, and a liar. And he needs to be taught a lesson.

After which, once and for all, Tom would be free of this accursed infatuation. 

\---------------------

Classes continued, and so did life in general. Other than the proxy war between Gryffindor and Slytherin, Dean was enjoying his second semester at Hogwarts. Quidditch practice picked up, as their next match would be in March. On top of this schoolwork kept him busy, as did the occasional Hogsmeade weekend and after school spellcasting practice with Hermione. 

By unspoken agreement they met almost every day, and she coached him in ever more advanced wizardry. He tried thanking her several times, and each time he was waved away without explanation. Most of what they did was defense related, but she also tutored him in Transfiguration, Charms, and even gave advice on Potions.

Finally, his curiosity got the better of him, and he broached the subject more directly. 

“Hermione?” He began. They were standing in an unused classroom. The desks were pushed up against the wall and a secrecy spell had been cast, fuddling the mind of passerby or would be eavesdroppers. Hermione was looking intently at a book, trying to best figure out how to explain to Dean the concept of advanced shielding. 

She looked up but didn’t say anything, watching him intently.

“You’re…” He swallowed, feeling super lame. “You’re not like other girls, are you?” He asked. 

At this, she laughed quietly. 

“And what do you mean by that?” She asked amusedly, her eyes sparkling but knowing. 

Dean cleared his throat and forged ahead. “There’s something different about you. Not wrong, I mean, but definitely different. You know way more than you should, and you’re looking for something--something advanced, and having to do with time. You’re…” He paused, praying that this wouldn’t be the end of their friendship. “You’re not actually fifteen, are you?”

She tilted her head back and looked at him shrewdly, eyes still full of laughter. 

“No,” she said simply. “No, I’m not.”

Dean frowned. He hadn’t expected a direct answer. An honest one sure, but not so plain. 

“Alright.” He swallowed. “Tell me more?” 

She shook her head. “No, first I need to know more about you. You didn’t grow up around wizardkind.” It was a statement, not a fact. “And you have a father. He’s a Hunter, yes?” 

He blinked, surprised. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s one of the best.”  
Hermione nodded, looking absent for a second. Pressing forward, Dean asked, “And Luna? There’s something going on there.” Hermione straightened, and looked him the eye. 

“Look, Dean, I promise I’ll answer all your questions--after this semester is over. In fact, I’m going to need your help with something this summer. It’ll explain a lot, but you need to ready yourself for the answers. You won’t come away unscarred. You won’t view the world, or your life, the same way ever again.”

Now It was Dean’s turn to laugh. Leave it to him to pick a psycho as a best friend. 

Knowing that the conversation was closed, Dean dropped the subject, and listened raptly as Hermione instructed him in curse shielding.


End file.
